


It's the Great Pineapple, Shawn Spencer!

by sebviathan



Category: Psych
Genre: Canon-Typical, Flirting, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Halloween, M/M, Multi, Pre-Relationship, Psychtober, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 18:09:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12587648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: Nostalgia flashbacks, a pumpkin-patch murder, a spooky silhouette, a hayride to die for, and, of course... jack o'napples.





	It's the Great Pineapple, Shawn Spencer!

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! 

**1994**

"I'm telling you, Shawn,  _no one_  is going to know what you are."

"Gus, don't be a coward. Tombstone came out last year! And everyone liked it! Well, everyone except Mrs. Gansey, but she's an old hag who needs  _trifocals_  and who wouldn't know a quality piece of cinema if it was stuck under her saggy—"

" _Shawn,_ " Gus stops him, and Shawn has to be grateful. He knows he was going too far.

"...Point is," he continues, "I have the vest, and I have the hat, and I have the  _moustache_ , and I even have the consumption make-up on to make me look all sick. People are definitely gonna know who I am."

"You know you don't look nearly as much like Val Kilmer as you think you do."

"You know you don't look nearly as much like  _Ernie Hudson_  as you think  _you_  do?"

"Doesn't matter! Winston is the only black Ghostbuster and his costume includes a  _nametag_ , Shawn."

"...Okay, fair."

Shawn doesn't push it after that—he knows he's only peeved because this is only the fourth year that he's actually had the freedom to choose his Halloween costume. From age four and onward, Henry coerced him  _every_  goddamn year to put on a little cop outfit. Thirteen year-old Shawn finally knew how to speak the hell up and tell his dad  _no, I'm going trick-or-treating without you and I'm gonna be an astronaut._

Granted, without his mom to do the final convincing, it wouldn't have worked. But he doesn't need anyone controlling what he does on objectively the  _most_  important holiday of the year, anymore—not even Gus.

He feels good. He feels like Val Kilmer. He feels  _sexy_. And most importantly, he's hungry for some candy.

"Nine o'clock," Shawn points out, promptly removing the cases from two of his pillows and throwing one to his friend. "All the real little kids are back in bed now, which leaves room for  _us_."

Them and kids who are mostly two or three years  _younger_  than them, it seems. It never occurred much to either of them how old they were until surrounded by rowdy fifteen year-olds while trick-or-treating.

Most houses that don't hesitantly address them as "ooh, the black Ghostbuster and a vampire cowboy, cool!" still at least bring it up as they toss a single candy into each pillow sack—

"Aren't you boys kinda old for this?"

Less than an hour after they've started, Shawn and Gus sit on a park bench, the latter already rifling through his bag for a snack.

The former, meanwhile, watches a group of kids T.P. a house down the road.

"We  _are_  seventeen now, aren't we?"

"...Yeah," Gus says, muffled by a KitKat.

"Most kids our age probably would have gone to a party."  _In which my costume might have actually been appreciated,_ he adds mentally.

"Too bad we weren't invited to any."

"Hm. True."

Still, though, in spite of how little time he's had the chance to be in charge of his own costume, and to have a trick-or-treating experience that didn't involve a stop at the police station to make sure he didn't swallow any nonexistent razorblades...

"I guess this has to be the last year we do this, huh?"

Gus took the words right out of his mouth.

 

*

 

Even if it really isn't his job, and as well as he knows that Head Detective Marks is only dumping off some file work on him because  _he_  doesn't want to do it, Carlton is more than happy to take it off his hands.

Partially because he gets a glimpse of a Head Detective's job, partially because of the tiny smile that Marks flashes him whenever he hands it off (which he's never seen the man give anyone else)... And mostly, at least tonight, because he's  _dying_  for something to do other than painstakingly search for holes in the wrappers of hundreds of pieces of Halloween candy.

Of course, Carlton simply cannot bring himself to "take his time" on any kind of police work. So he's left once again without an excuse to avoid it soon enough.

God, what he wouldn't give to just be on patrol tonight.

"You know, I've been volunteering to do this every year since I was eighteen and just in JROTC," he says somewhat absentmindedly as he starts going through a candy bucket.

"Oh, that's nice of you," the mother in front of him says sincerely.

"Mm-hm. And in eight years I've quite literally never found a  _single_  razorblade, or needle, or broken glass, or any kind of poison. No one in the SBPD has, nor has anyone in any other city, to my knowledge."

He says all that as calmly as possible while maintaining a loud enough voice that maybe, just  _maybe_  the whole of Santa Barbara will come to their senses and leave him to do something far more worthy of his time. Which is really saying something, considering how paranoid _he_  can be.

But all it seems to get him is a dirty look from many of the parents (who also cover their children's ears, as though to keep them from doubting the obvious urban myths) and a few of the other cops.

And the unmistakable rasp of Detective Spencer, a few chairs down, telling him,

"You wanna take that risk, Lassiter? Fine by me. You can go ahead and leave."

God dammit. Now he  _has_  to stay.

 _Happy Halloween to me._  He can only hope that he'll be put on patrol by next year.

 

*

 

"Happy Samhain!"

"...You what?"

Juliet sighs dramatically for the umpteenth time tonight. "You know, Celtic Halloween? As in the  _real_  Halloween?"

Now Naomi rolls  _her_  eyes.

"Since when do you celebrate the 'Celtic' Halloween?"

"Uh, since forever? I'm Scottish. My family is Scottish. We do traditional holidays, Names. You know this."

"Guess I forgot," she shrugs.

Juliet has half a mind to just shut the door and not let her in, then, but she knows that her mom will be pissed and then treat Naomi all special to make up for it if she does. So she fakes a smile and welcomes her into where the rest of her friends are hanging out.

And now that she's really seeing all of them as a group,

"Man,  _all_  you guys dressed up as witches? Really?"

No one seems nearly as concerned about this as her, as they all casually glance around at each other.

"Well, what are  _you_  supposed to be?" asks Diane.

Juliet looks down at herself and laughs.

"I'm  _clearly_  a banshee. Frayed dress, white wig, sunken eyes—come on, guys, it's like you don't know a thing about  _any_  actual legends!"

"You say that like it makes  _us_  the weird ones," Naomi says, followed by noises of affirmation from the other girls. Then, as Juliet's shoulders slump—"I mean, no offense! And hey, it's not like we're here for a costume contest anyway, is it? You said when you invited us that it would be treats, and movies, and a sleepover. Grown-up Halloween stuff."

"...Right," Juliet says, faking that smile again. "Grown-up Halloween stuff."

As she goes and collects all the food (some of which are traditional Scottish snacks) from the kitchen, however, it occurs to her that maybe she jumped the gun on this.

She's only fourteen, after all. She has a year or two left to act like a proper kid instead of catering to her far less enthusiastic friends.

And maybe she will, next year.

Maybe she should also get better friends.

 

***

 

**15-ish years later**

He'd been missing since last night, they said. First time in decades that Chuck didn't clock out after his last shift—in  _all_  the decades that he'd been harvesting pumpkins on this piece of land and driving the tractor that pulls the hay rides for the public... And yet his coworkers thought nothing of it.

His newer, much  _younger_  coworkers to no one's surprise, least of all Carlton's. And he makes that very clear as he questions them.

"We only found Mr. Brown an hour or so ago—right before we called you," one tells him. "Or— _we_  didn't exactly find him. The, um... the kids on the hayride spotted him."

The woman looks like she may be about to throw up or cry as she says that. Carlton can only imagine that it wasn't a pretty sight for them—but moreso, he can't help but think of how much  _worse_  it easily could have been.

It could have been much darker out, for instance. It's barely even dark  _now_. And it could have been far more gruesome! The old man's corpse could have had more than a single gash across his head, and it could have been closer to the hay ride's path instead of this far out—

But before he can say any of that, he hears the telltale rumble of a tractor not too far in the distance and, even louder than that, two very distinct voices in a heated discussion.

In a split second he's almost forgotten entirely about the woman in front of him, as he turns to watch the tractor pull in and the hay-filled trailer follow, and as he mutters,

"Something wicked this way comes..."

He has only a moment to feel clever about that before O'Hara scoffs, having somehow heard him, with her hawk-like senses. Or something like that.

" _You say_ , like you weren't the one to tell me to call them in the first place."

Carlton promptly throws her a  _don't you dare let anyone else know that, especially not THEM_  look, and then starts toward the parked tractor. She keeps her smug look as she follows.

Shawn makes a point of hopping over the wooden posts on the side of the trailer, briefly falling to one knee as he lands. He tries to play it off. Gus just steps down the stairs on the back like a normal person.

"Alright," Shawn all but shouts as he finally walks onto the scene, " _what_  is in such desperate need of my psychic services that I must be interrupted from the most important holiday of the year?"

It's a rhetorical question, of course. He wouldn't even have to be here to know that there was a body, and now that he  _is_  here... he's noticed several things even from this distance: The victim's terrible, terrible age. The positioning of the body within the pumpkin patch. The lack of any drag marks, suggesting that he was either killed right here or carried above the killer's head like a water basket.

Though he truly does  _not_  yet have any inkling of what makes this any special. Then again, it's been less than a minute.

"Funny, Shawn," Juliet starts with a cock of her head, "I thought you'd be excited to come solve a literal pumpkin-patch murder  _today_  of all days..."

"So would I," says Gus, coming up beside him and folding his arms.

So did Carlton. Perhaps the only reason he doesn't say so is because he's actually, genuinely  _pissed_  that Spencer is complaining. If he's being honest with himself... well, that was nearly the whole damn reason he wanted him here in the first place!

Old man presumed missing on the night before Halloween, found dead in a pumpkin patch on early Halloween evening.  _Spencer would sure fucking love to see this,_  he remembers thinking—and then immediately, without even allowing CSI to give him their immediate findings, ordering his partner to "call those idiots down here."

Call it some kind of...  _festive impulse_ , he figures. Whatever it was, it's certainly the last time he tries to give Spencer any kind of present.

"Happy Halloween, by the way," Juliet adds, unable to contain her own enthusiasm. "And All Hallows' Eve and Samhain and everything else."

"Sowin?" Shawn frowns, caught off guard. "Like a lady pig?"

Gus rolls his eyes. "Like the Celtic harvest festival that Halloween originates from, Shawn."

Juliet makes a noise of pleasant surprise, seeming to forget where they all are.

"Very good, Gus."

It takes a moment, but Shawn manages to tear his eyes away from the weird way those two are suddenly grinning at each other, and shakes his head and says,

"Well, no offense, Jules, but you thought wrong. I mean—maybe if just the ride here from the  _road_  wasn't so long, but Gus and I have our Halloweens planned out  _far_ in advance. There's a rigid schedule! I'm not going to ignore a call for a case but dammit, right now I should be arranging snacks, I should be putting up decorations, I should be carving jack o'napples, I should be watching  _The Corpse Bride_..."

 _If you want to leave so soon then maybe you should actually start trying to solve the murder instead of wasting time with this,_  is what Carlton wants to snap as Spencer lists things off on his fingers.

But instead, what catches him is—

"Jack o' _napples_?"

Shawn perks up at the question, always happy to explain. That, and being acknowledged by Lassiter for the first time since he's gotten here.

"You know, like jack o'lanterns. But pineapples instead of pumpkins, as they are by  _far_  the superior fruit."

"Maybe because pumpkins aren't a fruit," Carlton supplies.

"Fine," Shawn sighs. "The superior _gourd_."

"Pineapples are about the furthest thing from gourds, Shawn," comes Gus's annoyed tone.

Everyone around him, pumpkin patch staff included, is very suddenly either cheeking amused smirks or looking on in overt disapproval. Shawn thinks it's time he actually got a closer look at that body.

 

*

 

The truth is, there's no good reason that Shawn couldn't go home right now and leave the burden of pinpointing suspects to forensics and CSI and the other cops already on scene. He knows that, and Carlton, who was almost through questioning the incompetent staff before he got here,  _especially_  knows that.

But he stays anyway, if only out of curiosity as to what really happened and,  _well, I'm already here, aren't I?_

"Man, I can't believe  _kids_  had to see that when they were just trying to have fun on a hay ride...," Gus mutters as Shawn spins around to gauge the size of this place.

"You know ten year-old us would have fuckin'  _loved_  to witness a murder on a Halloween hay ride, though."

"Uh, ten year-old  _you_ , maybe. Ten year-old me would have had nightmares for weeks!"

"Hm, that's right," Shawn says a bit absentmindedly, then pretends he didn't just nearly trip on a pumpkin. "You always were a lot more squeamish... How 'bout you, Lassie?" he shouts.

"Hm?" Carlton abruptly turns from the forensics guy he's been talking to, having only vaguely heard any of what Spencer said.

"I said how about _you_ , man? Little budding-detective Lassie ever happen upon any grizzly deaths—ooh, is that your origin story? ...Did you tell the police about a murder you saw, but no one believed you, so you had to take it upon yourself to Nancy-Drew it out and then you realized you were pretty good at it, so—"

"No, I can't say I've ever been as much of a murder magnet as you two seem to be," he sighs.

Though that compliment admittedly warms up Carlton's chest, which Shawn seems to notice from his ten or so feet away. He smirks.

"I bet you wanted to be, though."

"I tried out a Nancy Drew thing once," Juliet chimes in, earning another awed grin from Gus. "But it... didn't last very long. I guess you watch enough Scooby-Doo and you forget how hard it actually is to be a child detective..."

Chuck Brown walked a long way out here in the dark and cold of the night and on those old, brittle legs... just to get merked, Shawn comes to understand. There was no fight, either—which the police, of course, already know. If there was a struggle, at least  _some_  of the surrounding pumpkins would have holes in them. He would have bruises, scratches. Instead there's just one, horrifying, skull-splitting gash.

And no one comes out this far for a smoke break, after all. But that notion gives him an idea.

Shawn bends down to grab a handful of dirt and tosses it in the air, immediately getting all the nearby attention as everyone squeezes their eyes shut and coughs.

When the "smoke" dissipates, Shawn is a whole new person.

"There's something out there!" he says in his best, however stereotypical, old-man voice. It's really just a Christopher Lloyd impression.

As he points a shaky hand at nothing in particular, the others slowly realize what he's doing.

"There's a big black shape out in the pumpkin patch... Won't anyone listen to me? I know what I'm seeing!"

And then Shawn goes into a real coughing fit from leftover dirt in the air, which he decides is a perfect place to end the vision as he stumbles to Gus's side.

"Shawn, were you—were you channeling Mr. Brown just now?" Juliet asks, excitement once again making its way through her voice.

"Of course he wasn't," her partner snaps.

"How did you know that he was seeing things?" comes the breathless voice of a staff member, running up to them.

Shawn throws Lassiter a smirk.

"Because of my gift, Bradley." There's no nametag; he just looks like a Bradley. "Around these parts they call it 'psychicness,' I believe. Happy Halloween."

He proceeds to shake a bewildered maybe-Bradley's hand, at which Carlton cuts in, purposefully intimidating,

"Hold on— _seeing things_? As in, this was recurring? ...And you didn't think to bring it up?"

"Oh—well... yeah, for the past week, maybe," the man shrugs. "I mean, he'd say that he thought he saw something out in the patches when it was dark, and we'd all look out there and not see anything, so we'd try to reassure him that it was just the light playing tricks on him—you know, with his astigmatism, maybe, or that if he was seeing  _anything_  he was just seeing a scarecrow... Honestly, I figure he was just going senile."

"Well, you figure wrong, Bradley."

"My name isn't—"

"Because whatever Chuck saw out there was  _real_. He saw it again last night, and he decided to follow it this time, and it killed him."

 

*

 

Apparently, as much as they all had to deal with the supposedly senile ramblings of Chuck Brown, none of the young workers at this pumpkin patch ever thought he would actually  _go after_  the dark shadow at night.

And now, Carlton has to suspect each and every one of them even more.

"What is it, huh?—One of you screwing with a good man's livelihood? The man has co-owned this place for half his life and all you can pay him back in is exploiting his business—maybe hiding drugs in his pumpkins? Hm? Stealing them for yourselves? Trying for a cheap thrill by having sex out in an open field at night, maybe?"

Ultimately, he has to be urged away from them by his partner. At least after all their alibis have proven solid.

"Fighting the good fight, Lassie," Shawn tells him seriously, with a pat on the shoulder. Then, "But I'm fairly certain that there's something more nefarious than some aggressively horny millenials at play, here."

"Right, and—who or what do  _you_  think it was that killed him out here, Spencer? Let me guess, The Great... Pineapple?"

He looks very proud of himself, at that.

"Don't insult me, Lassie. And more importantly don't insult  _her_. She's a gentle giant and she wouldn't hurt a fly—well. She _does_ contain multitudes of an acid so strong that it literally dissolves human flesh, but please don't hold that against her, Lassie... It's the outside that counts. And her outside is acid-free and covered with seeds."

Now, Shawn is very proud of himself for  _that_. And while Carlton and Gus both give him deeply confused looks, Juliet has an independent realization:

"You know, we actually  _did_  find little bits of broken glass in the dirt nearby that could definitely have been from a flashlight bulb! But... no flashlight handle, in his hand or anywhere else. The murderer probably took it."

"Which proves The Great Pineapple couldn't have done it because she does  _not_  have hands!" Shawn says immediately. "Thank you, Jules."

But, jokes aside, she's right. And very soon after she says that, Shawn's eye catches a dark shape a ways down in the patch.  _Hm._

"You got something, Spencer?" comes Lassiter's voice as Shawn furrows his brow and walks towards it in silence.

As he draws closer, he raises a hand to his temple.

"Yeah, I think I got... oh." He has to laugh as he picks it up, if only at himself. "Nevermind."

"What?"

"It's just a rock." And he chucks it.

 

*

 

It's Shawn's suggestion, oddly enough. Considering he was the one upset that he even had to be here only a couple hours ago.

But it's already dark by now, and it would be a while before he and Gus got back to the Psych office anyway. This might as well be how he spends his Halloween—sitting through all the other scheduled hay rides amongst hyper, costumed children, waiting and  _hoping_  to see the killer out in the field somewhere... just like Chuck did.

It's Gus who tells him, after they get off the third round,

"We should be watching movies right now, Shawn."

"I know," he grumbles in response. "Hell, we'd be  _done_  with our Halloweentown marathon by now..."

"Remind me why the hell  _any_  of us are still here?" Carlton says as those two walk up.

"Well,  _you're_  here because it's better this than scaring off every trick-or-treater who comes to your door, Lass."

He frowns. "I don't hand out candy on Halloween."

"...Of course you don't."

Juliet gives him a look. "You really don't put out a bowl of candy or anything? Not even when you're home on Halloween?"

 _I haven't been home on Halloween since Victoria and I separated,_ would be the answer to that.

"If I'm buying candy, I'm buying it for  _myself_ , not my neighbors' brats," is what he says.

Both Shawn and Gus give a small nod of agreement. And the former is about to continue on his list of made-up reasons why each of them have stuck around investigating this place... when he  _sees_  it. Just for a second, and then it seems to blink back into the dark.

He has to say, he expected it would be more person-shaped. Unless it's a very very  _large_  person...

" _Shawn?_  Hey—you there? Wait, did you see—?"

With nothing to lose and a sudden determination to actually get this thing over with, Shawn bounds off in the direction of the shape.

 

*

 

"Great, now we're out in the middle of the pumpkin patch in the dark, probably a  _mile_  away from our rides out of this place, chasing after something that isn't there, all because Spencer is sleep deprived and seeing things!"

"Okay,  _you know what_ , Lassie... that's fair enough," Shawn winds up saying, still a bit breathless, and a million times more exhausted than before. "But look—see, the hay ride's still coming around, so it's not like we're  _stuck_  here or have to walk back. So relax, would you?"

Objectively, Shawn knows it's perfectly likely that he only saw something because his eyes wanted to put movement where there was none. Emotionally, he feels certain that he knows what he saw. And so, naturally, he says nothing more as they wait to be able to hop up on the trailer and squeeze themselves amongst the rest, and he folds his arms and scrutinizes every inch of the darkness as they pass it.

It's Juliet who suggests that they stick around for the last hay ride of the night, as this  _is_  around the time that Chuck was killed out here, after all. Therefore the time of night that they're most likely to actually witness the killer out here again.

And then it's not necessarily her logic that gets the rest of them to agree, but rather their utter exhaustion and unwillingness to get up just yet.

"Weenies," she promptly calls all three of them, both in smugness and fondness.

When the last ride heads out, all but a small handful of other seats are empty. As Shawn notices that Gus and Juliet have remained practically thigh-to-thigh on the opposite side, it doesn't occur to him whatsoever to scoot away from Lassiter.

But perhaps that's because he's in the process of falling asleep, and because Lassiter's chest provides a nice support for him to do so.

Carlton, meanwhile, doesn't even realize until he sees O'Hara smirking devilishly across from him.

"What?"

She just pumps her eyebrows and points to the space next to him.

What— _Oh._

He supposes the fact that he didn't feel the weight of Spencer leaning on him means he must be getting similarly too tired to function. Or that he was, before the sight of Spencer's sleeping face and folded arms squished into his side sent an utterly  _sobering_  warmth through him. God, he hopes the dark is hiding how fucking red he  _knows_  his face is getting.

He snaps his head back to his partner and Guster, whose expressions tells him that it unfortunately is not.

And then he averts his eyes back to the darkness, desperately hoping to see something. To see  _anything_  that will distract him from having to think about his breathing, about whether it'll wake Spencer up—about the position of his arm up on the back of the wood posts and how he can't move it down, now, and how goddamn stiff the rest of his body suddenly is and whether he should just wake him up and  _tell_  him to move while he knows he doesn't actually want to do that—

And the trailer suddenly jolts as though hit by something very large, waking Shawn into a yelp and bringing Carlton's arm down around him in protective instinct.

" _Woah—_ "

"What the hell was  _that_?" Gus practically shouts.

Carlton looks around frantically to find the source for several seconds before realizing,

"I think we just... hit a ditch."

And then more importantly, how tightly he's still holding onto Shawn. The moment he does, he meets his gaze for a split second and abruptly,  _very_  awkwardly pulls his arms back.

"If there's a killer out there tonight, it's probably not a good idea to fall asleep," he adds gruffly.

"With two beautiful, experienced detectives and a loyal human shield out here with me?" Shawn glances between them all with a tiny, sleepy smile. "I think I'm fine."

In his sleep-deprived confidence, he makes a point of getting comfortable directly on Lassiter's shoulder and chest again.

 

*

 

None of them see any more shapes in the darkness. None of them speak up too much at all for the rest of the ride, really.

 _Seems like this was a waste of a Halloween night after all,_  is one of Shawn's first conscious thoughts as he wakes himself up again. Immediately followed by him breathing in the scent of the autumn night air, and dragging his eyes across the moonlit trailer, and feeling the rise and fall of Lassiter's chest along with his own.

_...Or maybe not._

"Hey, Lassie," he mumbles.

Carlton's heart skips and his folded arms tighten as he looks over. "Hm?"

"This was fun. I know you absolutely did not need to call me whatsoever... and honestly, thanks."

God, the first moment of real doubt he has to have that Shawn may  _actually_  be psychic, and it's on Halloween of all nights. Whether it truly has any bearing or not, his heart begins beating something furious.

"...Don't mention it," he mutters back.

In the next few moments, as Shawn wakes up further, he inexplicably puts together the vague outline of a shovel in the tractor window, the size of the hay bales in this trailer, the dark shapes, the wound on Chuck's face—all of it.

"Also, uh... I think I know who the killer is," he thinks to whisper, now. Just in case.

Tired as he is, Carlton jerks far enough away to see Shawn's face.

"What? Who?"

"I think we're being pulled by his tractor."

**Author's Note:**

> meta jokes that i'm too proud to let go unnoticed, just in case they went unnoticed:
> 
> “You know you don’t look nearly as much like Ernie Hudson as you think you do?” - Gus's father is portrayed by Ernie Hudson
> 
> "I tried out a Nancy Drew thing once." - Maggie Lawson played Nancy Drew in a 2002 made for tv movie 
> 
> Chuck Brown = Charlie Brown
> 
> "It's just a rock." - "I got a candy bar!" "I got a _____" etc "...I got a rock."
> 
> \---
> 
> I wrote the vast majority of this today because my dumbass HAD to procrastinate it. The inspiration was my own fanart done for psychtober: [X](http://bassdraws.tumblr.com/post/166155082455/finishing-off-autumn-week-of-psychtober-with-a)
> 
> Recommended listening:
> 
> ~ [psych halloween mix](https://8tracks.com/captainlucifer/a-very-psych-halloween) ~ / ~ [psych halloween mix 2](http://bassiter.tumblr.com/post/166862838762/no-exit-sucka-a-psychtober-playlist-halloween)~/ ~ [autumn shassie mix](https://8tracks.com/captainlucifer/autumn-in-santa-barbara) ~ /


End file.
